


Christmas Is Saved

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist (2003), Christmas, Crossover, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brothers have to stick together.  <i>Crap</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Is Saved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callunavulgari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/gifts).



> My bb wanted a crossover fusion with Christmas. She got… my personal brand of crazy. XD I hope you like it, bb! ♥

“What do you know, boys?” Ellen says.  “Santa brought you something special.”

“Santa can go to hell,” Dean says.  He’s serious.

“Let it go, Dean,” Sam says.

“I’m _not_ gonna let it go,” Dean says.  “You know why?  Because _this_ carnivorous monster in a Santa outfit—and the fact that I have to specify which one tells you an awful lot—almost carved out one of your kidneys for Christmas dinner.  I am _done_ with all the cutesy reindeers and hats and ornaments bullcra—”

“Reindeer,” Sam says.

“What the _hell_ about them?”

“No,” Sam says.  “‘Reindeer’ is the plural.  You said ‘reindeers’.”

“I am going to put a candy cane through your _face_ in a minute—”

“Boys,” Ellen says, louder, “at least pretend you were raised with some manners.  Mister Mustang, this is Sam and Dean Winchester.”

First impression?  Dean doesn’t trust this guy and his gang of pals any further than he could throw them. Admittedly, he could probably throw the little dark-haired guy a pretty long way, and the tall one with the gray hair looks like he’d straighten his back and do his best impression of a javelin just to be helpful.

“Good afternoon,” Mustang—no way in hell that’s his real name—says calmly, and his eyes are about as unreadable as it is humanly possible for eyes to be.  “I understand you’re looking for a yellow-eyed demon.”

Dean kind of wants to say _You and your clean white shirt and your slacks with the crease still in ’em and your hands with no friggin’ overlapping scars don’t understand a damn thing_ , but if nothing else the son of a bitch has his attention.

“What is it to you?” Sam asks.  His eyebrows are raised, but he’s not in full-on bitchface mode yet, which probably means he’s grudgingly curious too.

“We found one,” Mustang says.  He holds out a hand, and Gray-Haired-and-Obliging sets a manila folder in it.  Mustang lays it on the bar, flips open the cover, and swivels it to face them.

Sam’s eyebrows do a whole lot of acrobatics as he skims the page at Stanford-Law-School speed.  “He calls himself ‘Hohenheim of _Light_ ’?”

“Demons aren’t known for their grasp of irony,” Mustang says.

Sam laughs, because _apparently_ he doesn’t know _anything_ about how you can’t trust smarmy douchebags with too-clean clothes.  Dean taught him better than that, the little bitch.

“Why the hell are you sharing this with us?” Dean asks.  “Is one yellow-eyed demon too much for your six-man crew?  No offense, sweetheart,” he adds to the hot blonde who’s been watching this whole powwow with unsettlingly sharp brown eyes.

Mustang’s face doesn’t so much as shift a muscle, but he flicks the folder cover shut again with a fingertip.  “We have another objective taking us in the opposite direction.  It’s a higher priority, but I heard you might be interested in this case while we were occupied.  If I was misled—” He starts to draw the folder back across the bar.  “—that’s quite all right.  We’ll deal with it later.”

 _You giant, dude-shaped hunk of douchebaggery_ , is what Dean thinks.

“Hey, hold up, cowboy,” is what he says.  “We’re not quite done lookin’ at all that, are we, Sammy?”

“I’m from New York City,” Mustang says, pushing the folder back.  “I’m about as far as is geographically and ideologically possible from a cowboy.”

Dean gives the bastard his absolute best _What in the everloving fuck is wrong with you_ look.

Sam clears his throat loudly as he opens the folder again.  “Can we hang onto this, Mister Mustang?  And who drew the map?  This is _awesome_.”

“I get that a lot,” the chubby redheaded guy says.  “Almost exactly four times more often than Jean.”

“Hey!”

“It can’t be more than three and a half times as much,” the little dude in the glasses says.  “I bet I could write an algorithm.”

“I hate you guys,” Not-Awesome-Guy says.

Sam is engrossed in the papers again.  “Is this… every report of an insect-related, weather-related, or… _anything_ -related anomaly in the area in the past _year_?  Holy crap, you guys are thorough.”

Mustang gets this smug-ass smile and raises an eyebrow over at Gray-Haired, who blinks in a way that might be humble or something.

“ _Some_ people,” Sam says, “could take a lesson about research from this.”

“You’re too kind,” Mustang says smoothly before Dean can commit fratricide.  “Actually, that next part is complicated—do you mind if I sit down for a few moments and explain?”

“Let me get all of you kids a drink,” Ellen says.

For all of his general assholery, Mustang looks like he’s having an orgasm in his mouth as he kicks back with a beer and a slice of pecan pie, and then he gets so excited rambling about modified Devil’s Traps that he looks like Sam in a discount bookstore, so maybe he’s not _all_ bad.

 

 

“I’m thinking this is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” Dean says.

“No way,” Sam says.  “Phoenix.”

“Okay, this is the _second_ -dumbest thing we’ve ever done.  Happy?”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“I’m _serious_ , Sam,” Dean says.  “Going on the word of some stuck-up, posh-ass _New Yorker_ , we are approaching the farmhouse at the top of the hill, which is _probably_ infested with demons.  I’m pretty sure this is the plot of half of the crappiest movies made in the eighties.  You know who survives those movies, Sam?  The _virgins_.  You know what we’re not?”

“Subtle,” Sam says.

“ _Virgins_ , Sammy.  If we were in a Wes Craven movie—”

“Give me the knife, Dean.”

“No.”

“We agreed you’re on holy water today.  _Really_ holy water, I guess, on Christmas.”

“We did not _agree_ on that.  Are you still drunk or something?”

“I’m not—Jesus, Dean!  Fine, roshambo for who gets the knife.”

That’s a slightly dangerous proposition.  Dean almost always plays rock, because then if you lose the game, at least you can still deck your opponent.  But Sam _knows_ that—but then Sam knows that Dean knows that Sam knows, so Sam knows that Dean might play scissors instead.  So Sam knows Dean… knows…

Crap.

He plays rock.

Sam plays paper.

 _Crap_.

“Best two out of three,” Dean says.

“No freakin’ way,” Sam says.

The door to the house creaks loudly as it swings open.

“Are you coming?” a high voice calls.

“Hurry it up,” a second one says.  “We don’t have all day, y’know.”

Dean’s just about a hundred percent sure he doesn’t like the sound of this.  On the upside, Sam’s too surprised to notice Dean barging on ahead without giving up the knife, so _ha_.

“Okay,” he says as he plants one foot over the threshold, pauses, and scans the hallway, tightening his grip on the hilt.  “You wanna come out and talk it over, or are we doing this the fun way?”

“We’re in the kitchen,” the higher voice says, and Dean holds a hand out to keep Sam another arm’s-length away from this crap.

“Seriously,” the other voice puts in.  “You’re the laziest ones yet.  At least come in here with guns blazing or some shit.”

Dean creeps forward with the knife raised, moving slowly towards the lit doorway at the end of the hall; at his shoulder, Sam keeps opening his mouth to start sentences and then changing his mind.

“I mean,” the voice goes on, “at least that makes me feel kind of badass.  This is just _boring_.”

“There’s no need to be so judgmental, Brother.”

“Just because there’s no _need_ doesn’t mean I _shouldn’t_.”

“That’s terrible logic.”

“Whatever.”

Dean peeks around the doorway.

There are two… kids.  The kitchen around them is kind of spare and a little bit crappy but extremely well-scrubbed.  The slimmer boy with the short brown hair is sitting on the countertop, sprinkling parsley on top of a raw chicken in a pan.  The other one has mustard-colored hair pulled into a long ponytail, and both of them have sin-against-nature-yellow eyes.

“ _Well_?” the angry one says.

The brown-haired one swings his legs and peers into the pot boiling on the stove to his left.  “Brother, would you pass me a spoon?”

Yellow-ponytail hurls a piece of steel.

“I said ‘ _pass_ ’!”

“That’s what I did.”

Brown-hair flings a fork back, and its tines lodge in the wall two inches from the other boy’s cheek.

Dean and Sam get a half-second pause to duck, and then the air is full of flying cutlery—some of it thrown manually, much of it compelled by demon magic and moving at a pretty literally unholy speed.

“Hey,” Dean tries to say after a minute, but he can barely make himself heard over the yelling about secondary definitions of the word ‘pass’ and the pinging of stainless steel off of walls and furniture.  “ _Hey_ , what the _hell_?”

That’s about when the chicken explodes.

Dean gets his arm up _just_ in time to block the bulk of it, though the sound of raw poultry splattering against the leather of his sleeve makes for a great consolation prize.

Sam gets his dose directly in the face.  So he’s probably going to get _sam_ onella.

Brown-hair pauses with a gleaming chef’s cleaver upraised, staring in amazement at the damage—and then staring furiously at Yellow-ponytail.  “You— _Brother_!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Yellow-ponytail says hastily.  “I just—got caught up in the heat of the moment, and I was thinking combustible thoughts, and it was right there!”

At that, Brown-hair looks miserable—and at _that_ , Yellow-hair looks like he’s been stabbed.

“C’mon, Al,” he says.  “It’s okay.  We’ll just—we can get another one.  There’s got to be a couple stores still open.”

“They’re all closed,” Brown-hair-apparently-Al says.  “I looked online yesterday.  It’s… it’s okay, Brother; it’s—it’s just… dinner.  There will be other Christmases.”

“It’s not okay!” Yellow-ponytail says.  “This is your favorite holiday!  We’re getting another chicken if I have to steal one and wring its neck myself.  C’mon, it’ll be like a scavenger hunt.”

“Wait a damn second,” Dean says.

“ _Christmas_ is your favorite holiday?” Sam asks.

Al blinks his round yellow eyes.  “Um… yes?”

“But you’re a demon,” Dean says.  “Demons… aren’t really into Saint Nick and baby Jesus.”

“Okay, _asshole_ ,” Yellow-ponytail snarls.  “First off, my brother can like any holiday he _wants_ , and if you try to stop him from celebrating Christmas, I’m gonna trim the tree with your intestines and top it with your head.  Second, we’re only _half_ -demon, not that it should make any difference, you racist _fuck_.”

Dean…

…has no freakin’ clue what to say to that.

Sam looks at Al.  “Wait, are those—do half-demons even have vessels?  How does that work?”

“No, these are all us,” Al says, patting at his own chest and smearing a bit of chicken-explosion residue on his shirt.  “We’re… well, I think we’re unique.  It’s difficult to tell.  But we’ve never been to hell or anything, though I suppose that just as demon _blood_ has eldritch properties, so does…”  He goes pink.  “So do—other demon bodily fluids.  And we sort of ended up somewhere in the middle, so even though we really don’t do anything _bad_ , sometimes things… happen.”

“Storms and shit,” Yellow-ponytail says, waving a hand.  “And every now and then some dumbass hunter decides to come check it out even though _nobody_ ever gets killed or possessed or anything, and it’s not like we’re out in the backyard hailing Satan every fuckin’ Sunday.”

“We’re not out in the backyard hailing Satan _any_ Sunday,” Al says helpfully.

“It’s actually kind of like ‘Home Alone’,” Yellow-ponytail says with a grin that spreads across his face like a knife blade being unsheathed.  “You ever see that movie?  We just sort of torment ’em a little so they’re scared and won’t come back after we chase ’em off.”

“We’re just…” Al folds his hands in his lap and turns mournful yellow eyes on… Sam, mostly.   “Brother and I, we’re… just trying to get by.”

“Dean,” Sam says slowly.

“Nope,” Dean says.

“Come on, Dean.”

“No freakin’ way.”

“Have a _heart_ , Dean.”

“I do.  And I want to keep it inside my chest, so _no_.”

“Veto,” Sam says.

“You don’t _get_ a veto,” Dean says.  “This isn’t a friggin’ democracy, and even if it was, I’ve got seniority.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sam says.  “That’s the point of democ—”

“Well, this isn’t a democracy!”

 _There’s_ the bitchface.  Sam supplements it by growling like a puppy.  “Then I’ll go by myself!”

“ _No_ , you _wo_ —”

Sam turns to the yellow-eyed freaks.  “Pretty much all we ever do for Christmas is go to the closest diner and pig out, but you’re welcome to come with us if you want.  We _did_ kind of interrupt your dinner and ruin it, _Dean_.”

“I am not having Christmas dinner with a pair of _demons_ ,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Sam says, “you are.”

 

 

An hour later, Dean is having Christmas dinner with a pair of demons—and with his little bitch of a brother, who’s worse than a demon anyway.

“So she goes for the hex-bag grenade-thing,” Yellow-ponytail, also known as Ed, says, ignoring the burger grease dripping down his wrist, “and I’m like, ‘Witch, _please_ ’, and then Al summons a couple helldaschshunds, and she takes off like a _shot_.  Haven’t seen her since.  Hey, are you gonna finish those?”

He’s pointing at Dean’s fries.

Dean picks up the saltshaker, unscrews the cap, empties it over his fries, and sets it back down.

“Help yourself,” he says.

Al sighs.  Sam sighs.  Ed says, “You son of a _bitch_ ,” but he’s trying not to laugh.

So maybe— _maybe_ —that’s all right.


End file.
